


this isn't home, I couldn't feel more alone

by GingerLyoness



Category: The Hour
Genre: Angst, Gen, post series one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 17:53:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerLyoness/pseuds/GingerLyoness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freddie decides he doesn't want to be in London anymore. Post S1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this isn't home, I couldn't feel more alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diaghileafs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diaghileafs/gifts).



> From a prompt from my very own Monepenny, en_dejlig_rosa, who sent me the song 'Settle' by Two Door Cinema Club.

It had been four months since Freddie had been fired from his position on the team of The Hour, and he couldn't help but feel the slightest bit useless.

His father's death, however, was something that he couldn't have fathomed. Parents are meant to be there for you, and somewhere in the back of every person's mind is the thought that they will always be there.

But his father hadn't 'been there' for the past six years at least - some days towards the end, he couldn't even remember who Freddie was. _'Fucking dementia,'_ Freddie thought to himself as he marched down the stairs, _'hope it's not bloody hereditary - I'd rather burn to death than have to go through that.'_

Though, dementia is a type of burning, one might say - a slowly burning fire, destroying all of one's memories before they are merely a shell, nothing left of their former self, their soul long since vanished.

He throws his match into a puddle angrily, hands shaking, brow furrowed, cigarette smoke drifting lazily around his face in the midmorning autumn air, still thick with mist from last night's rain. He breaths it in, trying to calm himself at least a little - but what use is that, he'll only get worked up again ten minutes later.

He decides to get away, to go somewhere new. Somewhere he won't be known, he won't  have to bother with near constant condolences and other irritating things.

America. San Francisco. He saw a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge once, a colleague brought in a photograph they had taken, or something like that.

 

A week later he stands on that very bridge, looking out onto the city as the sun begins to set, the lights of buildings flicking on slowly, oranges, yellows and whites illuminating the scene.

In that moment he thinks of Bel, his Moneypenny. He wishes he had told her sooner, wishes she could be here now, with him. It's in that moment that he finally admits he loves her. Really, truly loves her.

He is no longer a boy, filled with sarcasm and harsh, sharp wit, ready to cut the first person he sees fit to challenge. He is more wary now, knows he can no longer be a child. He is an adult now.

 

The next day he goes into the city, buying a singular post card, writing the address, with only five words in the message section:

_Wish you were here, Moneypenny. xxF._


End file.
